


Trouble Finds Me

by callabang



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Colorado Avalanche, Minor Injuries, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-28 06:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19388905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callabang/pseuds/callabang
Summary: “Okay, so point made: he’s a superhero, and ergo, he is hot,” Tyson says, hoping he’s using “ergo” correctly. A flicker of something passes over Nate’s face, but Tyson ignores it; if Nate wants to be weird about this that’s his prerogative.





	Trouble Finds Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stromesquad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stromesquad/gifts).



> Written as a pinch hit for the 2019 Poly Hockey Exchange. Ali, your prompt was so fun to work with and I hope you enjoy this fic!
> 
> Disclaimer: I struggled really hard coming up with superhero names and superhero powers, and then eventually I just...didn’t. Hope that’s fine!
> 
> I borrowed “wannabe youth pastor Matt Duchene” from someone and for the LIFE of me I can’t remember who. If you or someone you know invented this joke please let me know.
> 
> Title from [Roots](https://youtu.be/PscXGpsF3dY) by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> Please note that this fic includes non-graphic descriptions of an explosion and subsequent injury, with a mention of blood and some confusion and dizziness.

“Hey Mack, do you know my routing number?” Tyson asks, wedging his phone between his shoulder and ear to root around more effectively for his wallet. He’s at the bank, in line behind an old woman and several besuited businessmen. There’s some mindless music filtering through the speakers, and some very pleasant decorative potted ivy. 

“Why would I know your routing number?” Nate asks, completely unhelpfully. Tyson squints with disapproval, although it doesn’t have much of an impact because Nate is talking to him via iPhone and thus is unable to see it. 

It’s a shame. He’s been practicing.

“I’m at the bank because the doggy daycare’s computer is down, so they’re asking for a paper check. But literally no one uses paper checks anymore, so I have to order some at the bank, but I think they’re going to need the routing number, which I obviously do not know. Ooh, do you think I should get a custom check with our faces printed on it?”

Nate sounds like he might be laughing at Tyson.

“I hate to break it to you, bud, but those are reasons why you need your routing number, not reasons why I would know your routing number.”

“You know my social security number, don’t you?” Tyson asks, finally managing to wriggle his wallet out of his admittedly very tight black jeans. He’s going to get a coffee after this and even though he and Gabe, the barista, decided they work better as friends there’s nothing wrong with showing off the goods now and then. Nate makes a noise of reluctant assent. 

“See, it’s not that crazy to--” 

Tyson cuts himself off when he hears the noise: a deep, groaning rumble that seems to be coming from the marble floor beneath him. The hanging lights of the bank sway ominously. 

“Tyson?” Nate says, and Tyson reaches up to hold the phone in his actual hand before taking an uncertain step backwards. The businessmen are putting on ski masks, which literally just cannot be good.

“I think the bank is getting robbed,” Tyson says, “And there was just this weird noi--”

An explosion rips through the building. Tyson hears cursing, a loud clattering of stone, and the world goes suddenly, catastrophically black.

...

When Tyson comes to, the room is filled with an opaque haze of smoke. Something wet is dripping on his face. His phone is still in his hand, and Nate’s voice is coming through tinnily from the speaker. He sounds like he’s yelling.

Tyson is lying on something hard and rocky, which hurts. He tries to move, but the room spins precipitously when he tries to shift, so he doesn’t. 

“Nate,” he mumbles into the phone, tongue thick in his mouth. He wonders if he bit it or something. With his free hand -- he’s lost his wallet -- he reaches up and touch the wet spot on his scalp. His fingers come away red.

Dimly, he’s aware of Nate continuing to yell, but it feels distant and hard to follow. Tyson licks his lips, trying to get his voice in working order, but ends up getting a bunch of grit in his mouth and coughing. Coughing on the rocks is worse than lying still on the rocks, it turns out, and it makes his head rush dizzyingly.

The last thing he’s aware of before he fades out again is the sound of his phone hitting the concrete.

…

When he wakes up a second time, it’s to the sensation of his upper body being cradled in someone’s lap. Laps, as they go, are way better to lay on than rocks. What’s less good is the fact that a hand basically palming his whole skull, pressing some kind of cloth firmly down.

“Stop’t,” Tyson mumbles, reaching up to swat at the hand. He’s pretty uncoordinated, though, so he mostly ends up batting his hand around without making contact with anything.

Someone plucks his hand out of the air and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Sorry, buddy, but I think you’re gonna want me to keep the pressure going,” a voice says. 

Tyson cracks an eye open and is met with blond hair and an awful lot of Kevlar-enforced maroon spandex. A superhero, then. Makes sense.

“Am I okay?” he asks, somewhat blearily. The guy gives him an appraising once over.

“I think so. A head injury is never something to play around with, but I think once the EMTs take a look at you you’ll be okay.” 

“Okay,” Tyson says, “cool. Great, love that.” His head throbs steadily, and he’s tired and cold, but he thinks he can handle laying very still in this guy’s lap for a little while. “Did you get the bad guys?”

“Yes, they’ve all be apprehended.”

“Cool,” Tyson says. "Cool cool cool.”

He drifts for what feels like a long time but is probably only a few minutes; every time his eyes droop closed the guy gives his hand another squeeze. 

“Hey, buddy, why don’t you talk to me a little. What’s your name?”

“Tyson,” says Tyson. “I can’t believe the bank got exploded. I was just trying to order some paper checks.”

“Who uses paper checks these days?” the guy asks.

“That’s what I said!” Tyson says with gusto -- too much gusto, apparently, because he gets another headrush. “Shit, okay, no gusto.” 

Tyson can’t be sure, because he’s basically staring directly up this guy’s nose and upside down to boot, but it seems like he might be smiling. There’s movement and noise coming from close by.

The guy lets go of Tyson’s hand, but keeps applying pressure to his head. 

“Okay, Tyson, the EMTs are here, so they’re gonna get you on a stretcher and into the ambulance, okay? Is there anyone you want us to call?”

Already, there’s gloved hands coming into view, taking hold of the cloth on Tyson’s head and positioning him on the stretcher.

“Yeah, can you call my friend Nate? Oh shit!” Probably, Tyson realizes, hearing him get blown up, briefly regain consciousness, and then pass out again might have been a little upsetting for Nate. “He’s probably freaking out, I was on the phone with him when it happened, you have to call him right now--”

Tyson twists a little bit from where he’s laying, and then like six hands, including the guy’s, are on him, keeping him flat on the stretcher while they strap him in. 

“Don’t worry,” the guy says firmly. “I’ll get in touch with him right now. But it’s important you stay still until the doctor makes sure you’re all in one piece, okay?” He holds up a phone as if to accentuate his point. 

"Fine,” Tyson says, settling down. His body did not appreciate that little stunt, it’s clear, and so he’s mostly out of energy to protest anyway. “Right now, okay?”  
“Got it,” the guys says, and as the EMTs load Tyson into the ambulance he can just hear the guy say, “Hello? I’m calling about Tyson,” before the doors shut.

Then the EMTs are shining a light in his eyes, and asking him questions, and that takes up the whole of his attention for the next little while. 

It’s only much later, when one of the nurses hands him a plastic baggie with his remains of his phone -- the screen completely shattered from where he dropped it onto solid marble -- that he wonders how the guy got Nate’s number.

…

After a lot of poking and prodding by various medical professionals, Tyson is giving a butterfly bandage, an icepack, and firm instructions to avoid loud noises, bright lights, and strenuous activity for ten days. The doctor directs the last point with a stern glare at Nate, who showed up to the hospital to curse a blue streak and give Tyson the second-longest hug of their friendship to date. This last instruction achieves nothing except to make Nate flush bright red and sputter indignantly the entire time he’s driving them home.

“Even if we were dating, you JUST got blown up!” Nate says emphatically, but also quietly because Tyson has a mild concussion and a major headache. 

“I did indeed,” Tyson agrees, because it’s true, “and I also threw up all over your shoes when I tried to stand up,” because it’s true too. Luckily the hospital had some little disposal slippers for Nate to wear. They’re a very fetching mint green.

“Don’t remind me,” Nate says, grimacing. 

They lapse into silence for the rest of the ride back to Tyson’s house. When they get there, Nate keep one arm around Tyson’s waist to steady him up the stairs, and uses his copy of the front door key to let them in. He sets Tyson up in his bed, tucks him in tight the way Tyson likes even though usually he complains about how Tyson just ruins it by thrashing around the second he falls asleep. He even puts water and some ibuprofen on the nightstand and promises to stick around in case Tyson needs anything.

“Thanks, Natedawg,” Tyson says, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” Nate smiles, goes to ruffle his hair, thinks better of it when he sees the bandaging, and settles for giving him a couple pats on the knee. 

“I’m just really glad you’re okay. I wish I could have been there to help.”

“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Tyson says, yawning. He’s so tired. “It was a pretty fucked up situation, I’m not gonna lie.” Nate snorts and gets up, presumably to watch reality tv or something on Tyson’s sectional while Tyson sleeps for sixteen hours.

“Wait,” Tyson says as he gets to the door, and Nate pauses in the doorway of his room. He’s framed in the light from the hallway, and it makes him seem a little smaller than normal, a little more fragile.

“Yeah, buddy?” Nate says. His voice is soft.

“Do you want to exacerbate my head injury by having wild, athletic sex?”

It turns out Nate has no problem at all slamming the door on an invalid.

…

Once Tyson is back at full health and thinking doesn’t hurt his brain any more than it always has, he starts to replay the hazy memories of the guy who saved him at the bank. He thinks about the warmth of the guys lap, and the way he held Tyson’s hand, and the calm way he handled the situation so that Tyson never felt too scared. He recounts all this to Nate, over their weekly Dairy Queen outing. 

“Sounds like he’s good at his job,” Nate says, spooning plain vanilla ice cream into his mouth because he’s a tasteless simpleton.

“Also I’m pretty sure he was hot,” Tyson says, partly for the way it makes Nate roll his eyes but also because he definitely was. “Buff, blond, and a do-gooder to boot? That’s a recipe for hotness.”

“He was wearing a mask,” Nate points out, which is true, but--

“Wait, how do you know he was wearing a mask?” 

Nate shrugs, “Don’t all superheroes wear masks?”

Point taken.

“Hotness isn’t just a physical characteristic, Nathanial. There’s also the spiritual element.” 

Nate looks disbelieving. “Okay, first of all, don’t say ‘the spiritual element’ like it’s an established thing, because it’s not.”

“The spiritual element,” Tyson says, warming to his point, “is that he’s a superhero. So he tenderly cradled me in his arms and applied pressure to my head wound, and he probably, like, saves kittens from trees and helps old ladies cross the street, and--”

“Anyone could do those things,” Nate says, looking mulish. “I could do those things.”

“Do you do those things?” Tyson asks, and then a weird flicker passes over Nate’s face and he folds his arms in front of his chest peevishly. “It doesn’t matter, it’s not like you do those things either.”

“Ha!” Tyson says, because that is a clear victory in his favor, and then he remembers the thing with the phone and tells Nate about that. 

“Okay, so point made: he’s a superhero, and ergo he is hot,” Tyson says, hoping he’s using “ergo” correctly. The weird something is back, for a split second.

“That is strange,” Nate says, and if his voice has gone tight it’s probably just because he’s still bitter about losing the argument.

“I was thinking maybe superheros are like 411 and they just have everyone’s number,” Tyson says, finishing his sundae. He at least knows how to make the most of the DQ menu.

The tension goes out of Nate’s shoulders. “Yeah, maybe.”

Whatever, Tyson thinks. If Nate wants to be weird about this that’s his prerogative.

…

Obviously, because Tyson is apparently a magnet for drama in general and not just in his romantic relationships (see also: Ryan O’Reilly), it happens again.

Well, not the blowing-up-a-bank thing. That would be a little much even for him. But what does happen is that his weekly grocery-and-booze run is interrupted when Denver gets infested with mutant rats and they’re wreaking enough havoc in the shopping district that the city government or whoever’s in charge announces that everyone should shelter in place. 

It’s kind of a weird time to be at a liquor store (six o’clock on a Tuesday, because Tyson comes directly from work and Tuesday is when he makes Nate come over to drink wine and watch recorded episodes of “Say Yes to the Dress” on his couch), so it’s just Tyson and the clerk. The clerk in question is a disinterested redhead by the name of JT, who has never once carded Tyson even though he’s veritably glowing with youthful vigor. Their phones (Tyson’s brand new phone, which has never been blown up by a dangerous explosive) blare the emergency tone slightly out of sync, which is honestly creepy as hell, and all JT does is sigh heavily and get up from his stool behind the counter to flip the sign to closed.

“Sorry, dude,” he says. “But I think you might be late to date night.”

“Me and Nate aren’t dating,” Tyson says. “Do you think a supervillain mutated these rats, or do you think it’s just, like, evolution?”

Something slams into door of the liquor store. It’s a rat the size of a corgi, and it’s making weird chattering sound as it slams itself into the glass. It’s foaming at the mouth, and the foam is bright orange. 

“I think a supervillain,” JT says, getting up again to deadbolt the door. “Good thing these doors open out.”

“Yeah,” Tyson agrees glumly. “Good thing they’re not automatic.”

They pass the time with a deck of cards JT finds in a drawer behind the counter, although neither of them knows any card games except Go Fish so that’s what they end up playing. In the middle of turns Tyson tells JT about Nate, and JT tells Tyson about his boyfriend, who is also named Tyson, and his other boyfriend, who is not. 

“Look at you, two boyfriends,” Tyson says. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

“You have weekly wine nights with a guy you literally just described to me as ‘an earnest beefcake.’ Can’t you figure it out with him?”

“We’re just hashtag best friends,” Tyson says, and then realizes his should probably text Nate his location just in case the rats mutate again and learn how to unlock doors.

 _No cops at pride only mutant rats,_ he sends, and includes a picture of JT flipping off the camera. 

Compared to the bank debacle, it’s really not such a bad evening. 

Eventually, someone with human hands and opposable thumbs knocks on the door of the liquor store. By now, it’s almost ten, and since JT’s shift technically ended at nine he and Tyson have made some forays into the cute little rum shooters on display by the register. Also neither of them has eaten dinner, so a little goes a long way.

As a result of these factors, Tyson stumbles to the door and is met with a sight: the maroon spandex, chiseled jaw, and flaxen hair of the very same superhero who saved him from the bank.

“It’s you!” Tyson says delightedly. “Bank Guy!”

Bank Guy chuckles. “Hey, Tyson, right? Glad to see you’ve made a full recovery. I’m just here to let you know that the shelter in place order has been lifted, the rats have been taken care of, and you two are free to head home.”

“Dope,” JT says, and before Tyson can blink he’s locked up the store and disappeared into an uber. 

“I thought we had a connection!” Tyson calls after him. 

“It may not be your date night but it is mine!” JT yells back. “I’m trying to get laid, and Kerf goes to bed at eleven!”

“Gross!” Tyson shouts, but JT has already rolled up the window. 

“God, kids have no respect these days,” Tyson says. He gives Bank Guy a commiserating pat on the arm and then just kind of-- hangs on. “Holy shit, you’re jacked.”

Bank Guy looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Thank you,” he says. “Are you gonna be good to get home?”

“Yeah, totally,” Tyson says, and then realizes that his phone and keys and wallet are all locked in the liquor store, and JT has vanished into the night. “Wait, fuck.”

Which is how Bank Guy ends up walking Tyson to the bus stop a mile away. 

“I don’t even have money for the fare,” Tyson says, scuffing his shoes along the sidewalk. The walk is sobering him up a bit, but at least the night is pleasant and cool. “And you definitely don’t have pockets in that thing.”

Bank Guy laughs. “I’ll talk to the bus driver.”

They have to wait a while, at the bus stop. 

“So,” Tyson says, never having been a fan of silence, “How did you get into this whole superhero gig?” 

Bank Guy shrugs. “Mostly I just wanted to help people. And this seemed like as good a way to do it as any.

 _He IS spiritually hot,_ Tyson thinks internally, _Take that, Nate._

“Awww,” he says externally. “Sorry you always end up taking care of me. It must not be the most glamorous part of the job.” He gestures broadly, to indicate his own lack of glamor and the deep, deep unsexiness of walking to catch a bus.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Bank Guy says, “There’s a lot more of this kind of thing -- walking, talking to EMTs, you know -- than you’d expect. Denver isn’t really a hub for supervillain activity. And you’re pretty good company.”

Is Tyson blushing? Impossible to tell in such dim lighting.

“Even with a head wound? Or tipsy on three rum shooters that I chased with flat sprite?” he asks, jokingly, and then Bank Guy makes such firm and supportive eye contact that Tyson actually stops slouching for maybe the first time in his life. 

“Yes,” he says definitively, and claps a hand to Tyson’s shoulder. “Like I said. Good company.”

“Oh,” Tyson answers, somewhat faintly. “Cool.”

When the bus comes, Tyson gears up to explain the whole mutant rat situation, but then Bank Guy just exchanges a glance with the driver and suddenly Tyson is riding the bus for free.

“Well, thanks for everything,” Tyson says, stepping through the weird folding doors. 

“No problem,” Bank Guy says. “Please try to avoid explosives and mutant rats in the future.”

“Got it,” Tyson says, and even gives a couple little finger guns to prove he’s serious.

He’s pretty sure Bank Guy is rolling his eyes when the bus departs.

He gets off at the stop near Nate’s house instead of his own, since he doesn’t have his keys. He knocks on the door a few times, and then a few more times when Nate doesn’t answer. Eventually he gives up and goes to get the spare key under the fake rock that’s 1) obviously fake and 2) two feet from the front door. He keeps telling Nate that it’s a recipe for a home invasion, but Nate never listens to his elders.

Inside, Tyson flops down on the couch and turns on the news, just to see if there’s any more rat-related content he should know about. Luckily, it seems like the problem is mostly solved, thanks to another superhero -- also blond and jacked, because there’s clearly something in the water, but this one in a dark blue suit.

 _All’s well that ends well,_ Tyson thinks, them helps himself to some sweats and gets tucked into Nate’s bed. He wonders where Nate is. Hopefully he didn’t get eaten.

Nate must have come home pretty late, because Tyson wakes up the next morning being aggressively spooned with no memory of him getting into bed.

“Hey, Nate,” Tyson whispers, not bothering to extricate himself from Nate’s grip. “Wake up.”

Nate mumbles and grips Tyson tighter. 

“Nate! Wake up! I need you to drive me to the liquor store!”

Tyson tries normal volume, then some light shouting; he tries thrashing, but it only makes Nate cling on tighter. Finally he gets one hand on Nate’s forehead and pushes him away by the face. 

“Wha--?” Nate mumbles, finally opening his eyes. 

“Get up, buddy. We’re going to IHOP and then you’re taking me to the liquor store.”

Nate rubs at his face blearily. 

“Hop to it! Pancakes await!” 

Nate levels him a glare but drags himself out of bed. He’s usually pretty exclusively grunt-y when he first wakes up, so this is par for the course. Tyson goes to the guest room for the clothes he keeps here for situation like this one, and by the time he’s dressed and stolen some mouthwash Nate looks slightly more alive.  
“Hey, where were you last night?” Tyson asks. “You must have gotten home pretty late.”

Nate’s whole body stiffens up, which is… weird.

“I was just… running errands,” he says, which is obviously a lie because no one runs errands at 11 o’clock at night. Tyson squints at him for a minute, but then he decides if Nate wants to keep this a weird secret he can let it slide this once.

Only because he’s taking Tyson to IHOP, though.

At IHOP, Tyson orders them their usual and then launches into an account of his mutant rat experience. 

“It was basically just a chill bro bonding night,” he says, “First with JT and then with Bank Guy.”

“Wait, Bank Guy? He saved you again?!” Nate asks, pausing in his quest to jam an entire sausage in his mouth.

 _That’s what she said,_ Tyson thinks, which he’s not proud of.

“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” Tyson answers, “Except this time it was less saving and more walking me to the bus.”

Nate doesn’t answer him, too busy texting someone feverishly.

 _Weird_ , Tyson thinks, and helps himself to Nate’s sausage.

 _That’s what she said,_ he thinks again. He’s only human.

…

Eventually a lot of things become clear to Tyson. “Eventually” in this case means “when Tyson gets kidnapped by a supervillain and thus needs saving for the third time in three weeks.”

He’s chilling in a warehouse, tied to a very uncomfortable folding chair, while a supervillain whose look seems to consist almost entirely of “wannabe youth pastor” monologues about something Tyson is honestly not trying particularly hard to follow. The supervillain has said “you know” 174 times so far, and Tyson isn’t particularly eloquent himself but _come on_.

Eventually Youth Pastor cottons on to the fact that Tyson isn’t listening, but before he can do anything villainous about it someone -- two someones -- break down the door of the warehouse and burst inside.

It’s Bank Guy and the other one, the blue one from the mutant rats, and fuck, Tyson doesn’t follow superhero news that closely but he still feels kind of bad that he doesn’t know their names.

They take care of Youth Pastor pretty quickly, getting him bound and gagged on the floor, and then the blue one is crouched in front of Tyson cutting him free from the ropes, and Tyson has to blink because-- it’s Nate. He’s wearing the fancy spandex and he has a mask obscuring the top half of his face, but it’s totally, definitely Nate.

“Nate?” Tyson says, “Are you secretly a superhero?”

Nate freezes for a second, just like the other day before IHOP, and he blinks up at Tyson through his mask. His eyes look very blue and he nods, once.

 _Oh my god,_ Tyson thinks, _Nate’s been spiritually hot this whole time._

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Tyson, but this can be a really dangerous job, and you’re always getting into trouble anyway, and I didn’t want to put you at risk--” Nate says, looking worried, but he gets cut off when Tyson hauls him up by the shoulders and kisses him. 

Nate’s mouth is, warm, and soft, and kind of wet. His hands are firm on Tyson’s biceps, and he’s touching Tyson like he’s something to take care of, and it’s all pretty fucking cool, in total. 

Behind Nate, Bank Guy clears his throat awkwardly. Nate breaks the kiss, looking pleasantly flushed and maybe a little embarrassed. 

“Tyson, this is Colin,” he says. “You know him, obviously. We… work together.” Colin gives a half-hearted wave.

Tyson looks from Nate to Colin and back again. “Wait, you two know each other?” 

“Yes,” Nate says, looking sheepish. “I asked him for help that day at the bank, because he was closer to you than I was. And the time with the rats, when I was still wrapping things up downtown.” 

Tyson takes this information in thoughtfully. “Wait, so do you really not think he’s hot?”

Colin makes a strangled noise, and Nate flushes an even darker red.

“Tyson!” he hisses, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, thanks to you guys,” Tyson says, standing up from the chair and giving a little twirl to show off his overall health and vigor. “Which I really appreciate. Just like I appreciate the both of you.”

“Where are you going with this, buddy?” Colin asks, but he doesn’t sound disapproving. More… willing to be convinced. 

“I’m going,” Tyson announces, gesturing for Nate’s hand and then pulling up from his crouch, “to a brave new world where you two are both hot superheroes and also really nice and caring and I think it would be really great if we all touched mouths.” As he talks he leads Nate over to where Colin is standing, until they form a little triangle of bodies. 

Colin and Nate exchange a glance. Nate looks at Tyson, and Tyson gives his hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Mmmph,” says Youth Pastor from the floor. 

“Shut up,” Tyson, Nate, and Colin respond in unison. 

Tyson beams. “See, we’re already on the same page!”

Colin cracks a smile. “You know, I wouldn’t mind trying this brave new world of yours out.”

Tyson gives him some finger guns, and then turns to Nate. Nate is still holding his hand, still maybe coming down from his earlier worry.

“Make the call, Mack. Whatever you want,” Tyson says, just to Nate. Nate’s face softens.

“Yeah, why not?” he says, and Tyson whoops. “I could use someone else around to keep you out of trouble.”

“That’s a tall order,” Colin says, so Tyson kisses him to shut him up, and then Nate leans in too, and then Youth Pastor is wriggling around on the floor so they have to stop and call the police.

“I’m getting checks with our faces on them,” Tyson says. And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/callabang_)!


End file.
